


Blood Ain't Thicker

by Morteamore



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Gore, Drug Addiction, Firefly inspired, MC is a grumpy bastard, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Sci-Fi, Slang, Unreliable Narrator, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-29 07:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20078305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morteamore/pseuds/Morteamore
Summary: Zachary Von Dyetrich, known as VonDye to those close to him, is a morally skewed starship pilot trying to escape a sordid past and just make an honest living. But when things go array with his current crew and that sordid past comes back to haunt him, he finds himself in the clutches of his twisted crime boss half-brother, Deeke, and is forced back into a life of crime and gang warfare against his will. Now, outnumbered and outgunned, he must use everything at his disposal to take his brother down and escape a life he never wanted to lead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Joss Whedon's Firefly universe

M’lookin’ at my boots when I wake up, and my visions veiled in crimson like anti-scan lenses. Blood in my eyes. Stings like the white hot spit of a star system. Can’t wipe it away, hands bound to the back of the chair beneath me by rope, knots so tight I can’t feel my fingers. Belts been stripped barren, gun and knife laying like a pair of entwined lovers at my feet. Bunch of teases. Beyond the pain, my sight pierces the depths of darkness, to the shadows that move within it. It’s like watching distant nebula, nebulie? Neither stars, nor planets, nor hunks of rock. Just particles of matter and energy driftin’ pointlessly somewhere at some time, ready to smash some unsuspecting starship into thousands of pieces of metal and wire. Usually mine, cos that’s just my luck. 

Von Dyetrich luck.

Ha, seems I ain’t just gone groggy from bein’ smashed on the head by Buddha knows what, apparently. Been drugged, too. Muscles don’t wanna respond to the simplest thought. Couldn’t even hold my weapons if I wanted to. Someone went all out to get my arse where it is. Wish I knew where that was.

And now a slick and ominous gun barrel slithers out of the dark like some great big viper with a gleaming tooth. Fully automatic brain basher gets tucked under my jaw, snub-nosed and hard edged as it props my head up. Artificial glare comes up like a summer morn on the beaches of my youth. Eyes drawn to slits, blurry and still sore as a bad tooth, I look up, up, and finally I get a vision full’a grin and cruelty.

Deeke Von Dyetrich, bastard brother of mine. Or half, as ain’t no man in the ‘verse that could handle sleepin’ with my ma twice. And m’glad for it, cos he got the worst’a both his folks. Deeke’s eyes are cold and grey like shadowed, snow-capped St. Alban’s, and he got a face like a’cross’a buzzard and fox. His mouth is crammed full of razors and blades, teeth lookin’ like they could strip flesh from bone. Bet they hurt. I ain’t gonna allow him to demonstrate.

“Von,” he says, and he talks like a newly christened shuttle glidin’ out of port, cuttin’ the air all pristine like. “Vonnie, Von, Von. That’s what you go by now? Trying to hide something?” Gun flicks, the metal slapping my cheek. A good whack that sends shooting bolts of pain through my jaw. “Or from someone? Maybe me? You’re not a coward, are you, Zachary?”

Hard to talk, for my throat’s been made’a raw pit of ragged muscle. Feels like every word is a scaly beast withering under a desert sun. “What, ya think I got these scars to be a ruttin’ showy arse?”

Laughter rings light, ill suiting of his nature, as he leans in inches from me. “You do look like an uglier bastard then when we last met.” Silence stretches in which the gun is withdrawn, tucked into a belt holster. A row of silver rings, one for each finger, flashes on Deeke’s hand. He pulls a chair in front of me, shrugs out of his coat-expensive and supple and a show of his status-sits. The muscles in his forearms are enveloped in bold ink that curls around whipcords of vein, and I can make out a wide-eye, a tentacle, and the nuances of a rubbery body. The squid’s feelers extend to his hand, endin’ below the knuckles, and I know from familiarity it ain’t meant to be no normal brand of modification. That there is a symbol that m’sittin’ across from top rankin’ notoriety. My older brother’s ambitions always were a bit big for his lizard brain. Got me wonderin’ how he’s been holdin’ it altogether long enough to get where he apparently is. Cos he might be intimidatin’, and he might be ruthless, but one thing he never was was a man with a good amount of brains.

S’fortunate that I am, then. 

“You’re one difficult bastard to find, Zach.” Deeke leans sideways in the chair, one arm draped across the back. “I scoured every bloody dive and scumhole from the rim to the core before I got word of where you were holing up these days.” The angle of his head makes his sharpened teeth stand out, their gleaming edges clicking quietly together. 

I croak out a laugh, ignoring the little fiery spikes a’pain that can’t seem to picka part of me and stick with it. Sayin’ it hurts all over’s an understatement. 

“Gettin’ rusty in ya old age? Ain’t like I have a secret lair. Hell, ya coulda probably pulled up a few public records and gotten my name on ‘em.”

“As I eventually saw. Never pegged you for the type for honest work.”

“Who said it were honest?”

The smile he gives me, it could turn the deserts of Ezra to ice. His hand reaches out, grabs my hair, breath on my face like’a roughneck on shore leave, gorgin’ himself to oblivion on cheap rotgut and third rate meat. 

“You’re a good liar, Zachary. Always were. Born with a gift for it, ma used to say.” The words r’soft and undercut with malice. He pets me like m’some gorram favorite dog and I try and jerk away, but his grip only gets more vice-like. “But what you aren’t and what you never been is a full-on Von Dyetrich. Your blood’s too thin. You don’t have the balls to run with the pack. So you hide in the sheep flock and hope you don’t get chosen for slaughter. Not that you’d do anything if you were. Because you’re weak, soft. You do what ever you’re told, even if it means baring your throat for the blade.”

“Ah, yeah, maybe that’s so. But I ain’t the one of us still suckin’ on ma’s tits.”

Deeke’s hands still. He stares at me with them feral eyes and, well, I ain’t usually scared of nothin’. Cept maybe a certain breed a’avians. But the look in his eyes then made me think what I said had broken some gate in ‘im. Like all the squirmin’, screamin’ ugly things in his head had come pourin’ out through it at once. And I was gonna be their celebratory feast.  
A wrench of my neck sendin’ a new breed a’pain up the side of my head, sharp metal poking into the skin at the softest part, the easiest to cut, and my breath comes abrupt and gaspin’ through my ragged throat. Swallow blood and saliva, keep my mouth shut. Cos I know he’ll gut me like a steer if he wants’a. And I know m’likely to say the wrong thing and eventually drive ‘im to do it.

“Let’s assume, Zachary, that there’s someone who actually gives a shit about you, and that I could find that someone. Think they’d like if I sent along a souvenir? Your tongue, perhaps?” His blade’s cuttin’ though the air quick, and I try not to flinch as I feel the flat of it rest gainst my lips. “It’s always been too smart. Losing it would do you good. And it’s not like you actually need to be able to talk. Oh, but maybe an eye would be better.” Head yanked back, point of the blade hoverin’ above my eyeline. Right eye, the one that still works good. The blade, it’s real, real close. Close ‘nough I can feel its phantom bite. If he slips, if he moves, that pain’s gonna be all too much’a reality. 

Quiet, curt laugh seeps from between the part of his lips. “Probably would be a wasted effort, though.” The blade slithers away and I try an hide the breath of relief that comes barrelin’ outta my lungs. “If anybody’s had the bad enough luck to partner up with you, they’re likely immune to rough treatment. Besides, I need all your parts in working order. For now.”

That doesn’t sound all too good. Sounds ominous, is what it sounds good. Cos if it’s one thing all Von Dyetrich’s are good at, it’s schemin’. And if I’m in my brother’s schemes, I can bet my left gorram nut whatever’s goin’ down is big, bad, and besided with death and destruction of the most elaborate kind. Deeke ain’t ever been one for subtlety. Gotta always mark his territory, be king of the heap. Ego’s ain’t somethin’ that come small in this family, either. 

I don’t say anything, just hang my head and grit my teeth and wait.

“Get him on board and stick him in the brig until I give you further instructions.” He’s lookin behind me when he says it, and it’s the first time I realize he got his thugs with ‘im. Two oversized, walkin’ pillars of meat and muscle come up beside me, unstrap me from the chair and manhandle me. Right, like in the state m’in I’m stupid enough to go tryin’ to whack someone who could crush my bones in a blow, nevermind two someones. Had my weapons, some backup, and a pack of smokes, they woulda had to watch out for me. It woulda been a different scenario. But as it is, I can barely walk, and I just go limp and let ‘em carry me. Deeke doesn’t follow, but he’s watchin’ me with narrowed eyes. He knows better then to believe me beat. Least he’s smart ‘bout one thing. He leans over to the taller of the thugs, gives an order. The thug’s smile is cold and sick and it makes me wary.

They stick a sack on my head, try and scramble my brains a little more with their fists. Somethin’ cracks sharply an m’inhalin’ blood, down on the floor chokin’, sputterin’. For what seems like the hundredth time in my life, my nose s’probably broken. Somebody grabs my ankle and drags me, each bump more painful then the last. Floorin’ turns to dirt, dirt to metal. Then finally deckplatin’, where bless whatever deity they finally drop me. The sack comes off, as do my clothes, and it’s a full strip down. The sound of a hatch clanks shut as the echo of their footfalls fade. I see lights built into the flooring, tin buckets in the corner. One fir waste, the other water. Naked, clingin’ to consciousness like a starvin’ parasite rootin’ for blood, I move towards them. And good thing I can’t smell too well with my nose all broke, cos the stench is nearly overwhelming as is. I lean over into the bucket with the water in, gulp its contents into my abused throat, come up retchin’. There’s dead things floatin’ in it, bugs and maybe vermin. It tastes like sweat and warm piss. I breath for a few seconds, force myself to drink down more. Ya only get to survive if ya can handle this kinda shit; if you’re a big enough bad ass that it don’t break you. I think I read that in a book somewhere.

Hours pass. The metal beneath my bare skin is cold, and I can’t find no comfortable position on it. Sounds drift through the vents like delusions. I hear singing, people losing at card games. Screamin’ and cryin’. My sleep is fitful. I fall deeply into it, then come out all abrupt like, as if my mind is wantin’ to keep me alert for when the flames of the fire gonna get worse. I hear the roar of thrusters, an engine vibratin’ through the walls. Not a good enough mechanic to know its class by sound alone. Know a few types like that, though. Be handy now. Not that knowin’ the ship’s class’s gonna help me out where I’m at.

When I wake up fir good, too restless and anxious to sleep no longer, m’alone with my muddled thoughts. That’s what got me in to this mess to begin with. Hittin’ the ole waterin’ hole, submergin’ memories in rotgut till I can’t walk no more and the barkeep’s callin’ last round and about to toss my ass out on the street. Lyin’ in the gutter, no wits about me and no one to watch my back. Then along comes an old familiar face, and my hands are like mitts as I fumble for my weapons. With all that drink in me, folk who been touched in the head coulda probably drawn faster then I did. Not like I coulda hit a target, anyway. Didn’t really take in what was goin’ on, either. They had me down and out before I could slurringly ask. Swear to Buddha, I make it oughta here, ain’t ever gonna drink again. 

Least on my lonesome, I ain’t. 

The cell’s hatch opens eventually. Deeke comes in flanked by his thugs. He’s got a change of clothin’, an food. Not too stale, by the smells of it. Starvin on an empty, growlin’ stomach, I still bare my teeth at him when he offers the food, strike it out of his hand. I musta been oughta my head, cos the next thing I register is the thugs kickin’ me. Dull, sudden blows that rattle my teeth. Deeke’s under me, my hands on his throat, his legs trapped. He’s scrabblin at my bare skin. And the noises we make are deafenin’ as they echo offa the metal walls, like hounds crammed fifty to a holdin’ pen, barkin’ and bayin’ in unison. 

I coulda killed him then. Kept tightenin’ my grip till his head popped like a blown gas line. But I hesitate just short of it. Dunno why. Stupid of me. Specially since he gets enough leverage then to throw me off.

I don’t struggle when they get to hosin’ me down, turn the setting to a hail of watery spikes and scrub the blood offa my face with it. They got a doctor with ‘em, a silent fella with bad teeth and jaundice in his eyes. He patches up my nose with fingers that got about a dozen or so bandages themselves and then disappears, back to the med lab or his own holding cell or wherever. The threads they hand me ain’t so bad. Suitcoat, slacks, collar’n tie. Polished shoes, too. Not quite fancypants, but no rags. Rough as their handlin’ was, s’relief to be clean and clothed. 

“If he gets out of line again, you have my permission to break any necessary bones,” Deeke tells the thugs, rubbing the marks I left on his neck.

Let him think m’intimidated by the threat. I’ve had worse done to me. Hell, bullets’er hurt ya more then a bone break. I’ve taken a coupla those dead on in my lifetime. So I can’t help it when m’made to smirk. Course, Deeke notices and frowns. 

“Never took you for a masochist, brother of mine,” he says as the thugs secure me.

“Best not to take me for anythin’,” I say, smirk inchin’ further across my face. “Cos you’ll come up short every time.”

“You think so?” His tone is real earnest-like, but the look in his eyes is pure deadly. “You’re my baby brother, Zach. There’s nothing about you I don’t know or that I can’t predict.” The flat of his palm thumps me on the chest. “We make planetfall in an hour.”

I cough when his hand makes contact. Somethin’ goes a’rattlin’ in my lungs. And the pain in my side is just startin’ to reach critical annoyance. Broken ribs, m’thinkin’. All that kickin’ I endured was bound to knock things loose. Still, I raise an eyebrow at Deeke.

“Any chance of ya tellin’ me where we goin’?”

My brother smiles. Big ole Von Dyetrich smile. It’s gonna be bad.

I cough and cough. Feels like my lungs gonna come out my throat.

“Sure,” Deeke says, voice crawlin’ low like a snake’s belly to the ground. “I’m taking you home.”

XXX

I was born on Paquin. Out in the civilian outskirts, among the darker side of the carnivals, not the ritzy, dolled up noble district of the planet. No, nobles on that planet always been a point of resentment with me, cos they made everythin’ look fine n’dandy on the surface. And Paquin was never fine n’dandy, not even for a moment. Where I grew up, in the heart of shanty town, it weren’t no easy thing to survive. From an early age, us residents learned to steal, con, swindle. Sometimes kill. Plenty of shady types willin’ to pay coin to a poor beggin’ bastard child if they would just go n’shank someone or other. I mean, who suspects a kid to be wieldin’ a pigsticker, nevermind actually stick ya with it? Never got that low, myself. Even back then I had this sense that crossin’ that line that young would undo somethin’ in my head permanently. When ya older, the story changes. It’s ya duty or ya protectin’ someone or it’s fir personal reasons. Ya own sense of morals are involved. Ya understand the implications of pullin’ that trigger or wieldin’ that blade. Suppose m’lucky, though. I didn’t get that low cos there weren’t no need fir it. I lived with my ma, who put me to work as ‘er right hand man. She was a con artist, ya see. A ruttin’ good one. Fed tourists tales about how she was part gypsy and been gifted with the sight. Seein’ the future and all that horseshit. Lies, all of it. She was real good at readin’ people, at knowin’ what they wanted to hear and tellin’ them just that. And she was real good when it came to wranglin’ coin from the more randy tourists. Soldiers and roughnecks and all kindsa workers on shore leave or whatnot. Promisin’ them one helluva exotic lay. I know cos when ma brought ‘em home, I usually ended up sleepin’ at the kitchen table. There was only one bedroom between the both of us. And I know cos one of those fellas ended up bein’ my brother’s dad. And another mine. I don’t got much to say about my dad, other then he was young when he fathered me, real young, and I don’t for a second think I ever took after him. Look like ‘im a whole lot. Almost identical. But thinkin’ he was a much more decenter type then I turned out to be, cos he died fightin’ the good fight, or so they call it. Throwin’ ya life on the line when ya know the odds are against ya, though? That’s a ruttin’ gormless thing to do. Much better to let the bad guys think ya beat down and subjugated, worm ya way to their turned back and slip ‘em justice.

See, definitely didn’t take after dad.

Mebbe it just bothers me he got his ass shot down lika dog. I dunno. I don’t believe in alla that bullshit psychobabble. Anyway, my point was that fir the most part, there were at least tablescraps for me to eat and I had clothin’ and shelter, so I were never too desperate. Ma was a cold bitch, though. Would beat me round the head when she got in the mood to teach mea lesson. Didn’t care when I got bloodied or scarred up fightin’ with other kids, or when I came down with a fever that was threatenin’ to cook my innards. It was fend for yaself all around. But it were never as bad as some of the other kids I knew had it. 

My brother only lived with us when I was real small. By the time I were mebbe six, he was already gone. Smart move. I ended up stayin’ into my early teens, hung around Paquin connin’ folk just as ma had taught me even longer. Least till the war started and I learned dad was dead and I’d gone all tired of the con life. Movin’ on only lead me back to family, though. Found out through the underground gossip that Deeke was still on Paquin, and he had just been getting’ goin’ with a bit of his own gang. Low key organized crime. Nothin’ noteworthy, then. I was good wit electronics, shit like that. Mebbe the only other thing I might’ve taken from dad. Don’t really know and can only speculate. And Deeke had a spot for a hacker in what he figured was his future goldmine. Well, I did that for awhile, learned it just weren’t for me. Not that I wasn’t good at it. Natural affinity and all. Just didn’t like how Deeke was runnin’ things, or where he was goin’ with ‘em. I wasn’t gonna play puppet while he exploited me or eventually sold me out, either. So I walked out on ‘im, and he was gunnin’ for me awhile. News was when he found me, he was gonna cut a few parts offa my body then dump me on the alliance’s doorstep. Feds hate hackers, so it goes, and I’d been doin’ some bigtime infiltration of the computerized kind. Big enough to get the lockup for the resta my life.

I got offa that planet quick as I could persuade someone to take me. Begged every pilot and crew I came across to train me to fly, anythin’, really. Crew who picked me up weren’t the real honest types, but they weren’t no cutthroats like my brother, either. And so it went. Got trained to do somethin’ other then cock-up other people’s electronical systems. Got to fly my first boat. Got my first real family. Got too much involved with a crewmate, tripped into bitterness, got swallowed up by jealousy, and finally gotta taste a blood. It was the first person I ever killed. Still thinkin’ to this day it shoulda bothered me more. I mean, it were an accident, in the whole of things. But an accident I coulda prevented, nonetheless. And I ain’t as guilty as I should be. That there’s what reminds me every day that, despite what my brother thinks, m’indeed a Von Dyetrich. Too mucha one. Cold blooded lot, they are.  
So when we get to Paquin, I ain’t too thrilled to be there. Last I knew of things, Ma had thrown in with Deeke’s little empire. And over the years, it /had/ become an empire. Like I said, I dunno how he was keepin’ it so grounded, cos the grip the Von Dyetrich’s had on Paquin’s underbelly had become notorious. They weren’t patrollin’ the streets of the outskirts or nothin’. But their eyes an ears were all over the ruttin’ planet, and anythin’ big that happened in the seedier districts were either their doin’ or they knew about it. I wanted to laugh at the very idea, but it weren’t really all that hilarious, once ya thought ‘bout it. It was ruttin’ disturbin’.

I figured ma had become the real figurehead ‘ere, though. Pullin’ my brothers strings. Threatenin’ the other carnival workers if they didn’t comply. Sounded like somethin’ she’d do. She were smarter then my brother, anyhow. But when I walk through the door of Deeke’s place, a big ole house set on its lonesome a couple miles from the ocean, m’surprised to be confronted with not ma, but a woman round thirtiesh. Dark hair pulled back in a loose tail, spacer’s clothin’, muscultare standin’ out on ‘er arms. One of ‘em’s wound around a bald-headed tyke clingin’ to ‘er hip, the other thrust out in front of me all friendly like. She even smiles, to my puzzlement. 

“Now whatsa pretty lady doin’ greetin’ people at my brother’s door?” I ask her, takin’ the hand, shakin’ it with both of mine. “Surely ya can’t be the maid, can ya?”

Laughter bubbles up quietly from her, face crinklin’ around ‘er eyes and cheeks like a shy girl whose been confronted with ‘er first amorous admirer. “Deeke was right about you,” she says, and pulls away to tuck the baby into a fancy crib that’s been setup against the wall. “You _are_ an asshole.”

She’s still smilin’ when she says it, lookin’ pleased as an arachnid descendin’ on a meal it’s just caught in its web. So I missa beat, or two or three, wits tumblin’ down around me. When I finally get them rebuilt, Deeke’s walked through the door himself, given the lady a quick kinda embrace, and is gesturin’ over that there crib, the kid makin’ those cooin’ sounds babies so seem to enjoy. Don’t take no genius to put this situation together.

“Fuckin’ gotta be kiddin’ me,” I drawl out loud. “Lookit this. Ya got the whole family man shtick not just down, but conquered. Whatta ya give the kid to play with, a gorram switchblade?”

“Kids,” Deeke corrects, head snappin up all quick, eyes narrowed. “The other two haven’t returned from their lessons yet.”

I lookit the woman, whose standin’ where she was before, those strong arms crossed over ‘er chest. It’s then I notice the ring on ‘er finger, shiny and sparkly and real gorram hard to miss. She bugs ‘er eyes at me, mockin’ my stare. I have a feelin’ she could take me in a fair fight. 

“Ya do know what kinda scumdog ya married to, dontcha?” I quip at ‘er.

“Well aware,” she quips back, her voice fulla challenge. 

And what I do is I stare some more. Cos, really. What else am I gonna well do ‘ere?


	2. Chapter 2

I get my own room. No windows or much furnishin’s or anythin’ like that. Just a bed and a desk and a washroom. Bed ain’t even comfortable. Least they did me one good and left me with a casket of homemade shine. Ma’s recipe, good an strong like it’s supposed to be. Can’t use the bottle as a weapon, though, cos the door’s looked from the outside, guards out in the hall so I can’t go nowhere even if I managed to pick the lock. Which I could do, easy, if it were worth it. I get to be escorted round the house when m’summoned, lead like a savage hound that’s just itchin’ to turn ‘round and get his sharp and deadly gnashers in his master’s throat. Mebbe I need guards after all, then, considerin’ what m’plannin’ on executin’ once I get the upper hand. 

Jaundiced doc comes to check my vitals now and again, gives me meds fer the pain, keepin’ it from crescendoin’ to a monster barrelin’ through my insides, rippin’ part everythin’ in its path. He patches the ribs, changes my other dressins, takes blood, don’t say much but a ‘good day, sir’ or ‘good evenin’ or that I shouldn’t be smokin’ myself to the grave when I ask him for a light. Wonder why a doc’s even gotta lighter less he’s blazin’ that smoke trail himself, tell m’it’s my only comfort and to bugger off. Guy seems amused by me. 

Guzzle drink, blow smoke, lay in the bed and stare at the ceilin’ like a junkie whose got himself all infatuated with the patternin’ of the cracks. Not much else to do, with meals bein’ sent to my room and not even a datapad to fiddle with, or a bloody book to read. And not that I’d be proclaimin’ this under any other circumstances. Can’t believe m’proclaimin this, regardless. But a man can only git ‘imself off so many ruttin’ times. Brother’s tryin’ to kill me with boredom, I suppose. What he don’t know is I been bored before, fer months on end. Part of pilotin’ that ya can’t get ‘round. 

But with nothin’ to do, my thoughts tend to drift deeply into that stormy gutterscape of a mind I got. Skippin’ recent events for now, what lead me to here. Those are fresh’n’painful, like a wound that’s in a middle of drainin’. Not ready fer that. Might never be ready. Think about my childhood ‘ere on-planet instead, alla folk I met, shit I pulled on most of ‘em. One particular fella I got a real extra kick oughta harassin’, cos he wassa blue-blooded fool. Aw, nah, that ain’t really true. Blue-blooded he mebbe been, but fool he was not. Only one bit older than me who seemed to be smart to my tricks on multpile ‘casions. Admirable trait, that. Learned to tolerate his class of standin’ enough to consider him a buddy.

That was Caleb Rarebit, dubbed The Rabbit, or just plain ole Rabbit. Rabbit didn’t have his head up ‘is ass like alla other rich folk’s pups, used to slum ‘round my parta the planet like he had right to be there. Saw ‘im beat down anyone who messed with ‘im for crossin’ turfs. Includin’ me, that first time I tried to pickpocket ‘im. We had ourselves a scuffle, and when it were over, both of us still standin’, bloody and outta breath and each eyeballin’ the other, we spoke a truce and agreed to leave each other be. Yeah, like I ever told an ounce of truth even then, cos the next time I saw ‘im, the same shit went down. Was more like I couldn’t resist the shiny piece a metal he had sheathed to his belt, but I ain’t gettin’ bogged down by details ‘ere.

Lemme tell ya, that kid could swing a fist. Broke my nose fer the first time in that second round a fightin’. Had to get patched. Ma had a fit that rivaled an angry mob. Took a good beatin’ fer that one. But hose fights with Rabbit? Well worth it every time. We never stopped fightin’, not entirely, though there came a time where the rivalry was more verbal then anythin’. Rabbit had a smart mouth on ‘im, too, and, when we was old enough to attract attention of the feminine kind, a sense fer the, er, easier lady folk. He wassa looka, money comin’ outta that boy’s ass, and I was suave-tongued and all manipulative like, and together there weren’t no thing we couldn’t figure out or git over on or break into or just break fuckin’ down. 

Course, good things come to an end. Always do. Inevitable paths of the ‘verse. Rab’s folk caught wind of ‘is antics, got all tired of him cavortin’ with us street kids, sent ‘im off to boardin’ school for his upper years, right ‘bout the time I left home. Weren’t the same without Rab. Didn’t trust nobody else, didn’t have no other friends, and somehow it just weren’t as interestin’ anymore, the con game. Mebbe I woulda gottin’ restless whether Rabbit was there or not. Who knows and who gives a gorram shit, eh? 

Didn’t see Rab again till I was runnin’ with Deeke. Turned out he’d dropped boardin’ school for an apprenticeship inkin’ folk. Always was a good artist, and it was strangely suitin’. Magine my surprise when Deeke brought me to ‘im to get branded. I step through the door and there’s Rab, older and fulla tattoos himself, but still the same Rabbit I remembered. Man’s real skilled, real tight with his ink, and me, I pick a place where my newfangled and not-so-little clan’s symbol’s gonna turn heads. Image of a giant squid, ten-tentacled monstrous legend of the deep seas goin’ jawline to bicep, coverin’ most a the area. Rabbit warned me, said probably ain’t the best place for a neonate to go stickin’ a tattoo needle, that Deeke was smarter ‘bout his placement. Deeke came outta it relatively unscathed, but gorram, did I feel like a viper decided my neck was a tasty lookin’ snack. Rabbit thought it all quite a laugh.

He didn’t know he’d bound me like a trussed up hog ready for the pit roast. Hell, I had no gorram clue what’d I’d brought down upon myself just gettin’ that ink, either. Only reason I haven’t removed that bastard was cos it does, on occasion, have its advantages.

And it would hurt poor Rabbit’s feelin’s. Wouldn’t want that, now, would I? Last time I pissed the man off, he threatened to gimme piercin’s in the most painful of places.

There’s a knock at my door, yankin’ me up from those wakin’ dreams of my youth. Door opens without me sayin’ nothin’, and it Deeke’s woman what comes crossin’ the threshold. I prop myself up on my elbows, take the cigarette danglin’ from my mouth, and meet ‘er gaze evenly. 

Think I mebbe lookin’ at my gateway outta ‘ere, if m’lucky. Gonna be a tough one to crack, she is, but m’tenacious as they make ‘em. 

Besides, way it works most a time, tough bitch just needs a strong person to knock ‘er down a coupla notches. Deeke’s most likely pussy-whipped to complacency, the asshole.

“Don’t think I caught ya name before, darlin’,” I say, voice low and smooth and all charmin’ like. 

“There’s no reason for you to know it,” she says, crossin’ the room. 

She ain’t afraid to get close, cos she’s standin’ right beside the bed when she stops. Guess she got room to have bollocks of steel, considerin’ how much firepower’s standin’ outside the door. 

“Mebbe just cos I wanna know.” I sit up, drop my legs over the side of the bed, sigh. “Ya can call me Von.”

“Actually, I prefer to call you Zach.”

“Or, well, Zach.”

“You’ve been summoned, Zach.”

“Oh?” I try a grin on ‘er and she just screws up ‘er face like I’m some foul, dead critter been rottin’ in the back of the cupboard or somethin’. 

“Put the rest of your clothes on and get downstairs.”

“Ya ain’t gonna help me? Got all these bandages and all. Quite painful to be movin’ ‘round so much.”

“I think you can handle it.”

“Doc’s orders. No strenuous activities.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t be talking so much.” Shirt and tie and suitcoat gets tossed at me. “After all, fabricating all that bullshit must be rather strenuous.” 

I blink up at ‘er, rake my fingers through my goatee as I try and conjure a reply to match the wit flyin’ round the room. But I prove too slow at that. She’s out the door fore I can say a thing. Winces and grunts accompany my careful venture into shirtsleeves, cuttin’ a path through the dull and placid lull of the painkillers. Wasn’t tellin’ no lie ‘bout the pain of movin’ too much. Not at all. Fuck. Gorram. I gotta bite back on a whimper when the suitcoat goes on. Good thing m’alone, cos I woulda looked a fool.

Gun muzzle in my face soon as I step outta the room, threaten’ blur of wavin’ metal before it gestures to the staircase. I pass by the burly bastard who got his nosepickers twitchin’ near its trigger, feel it pokin’ me tween the shoulders. Thinks he’s bad ass, but he don’t know the only reason he ain’t swallowin’ that gun at that very moment’s cos I can’t possibly take on all the other fuckers in the house by my lonesome. I ain’t that ready to kick the bucket that m’gonna be tryin’, either, though you’d never figure from the lines I like to cross.  
Deeke’s in a serious conversation with a guy who looks like he stepped offa showroom floor, new threads an all that horse shit. Must be noble blood, judgin’ by the overall manicuredness and the shear look a disdain he lays on me. Raises my hackles. My brother breaks ways wit him at my arrival, saunters over and gives me a hard clap on the shoulder.

“And let me introduce the guest of honor,” he says, spreadin’ his arm towards Mr. Fancypants in a prissy flourish. I roll my eyes. “My brother, Zachary. Exactly the man you need for the job.”

I incline my head at my brother, narrow my eyes. He got a shit eatin’ grin, and Fancypants is givin’ the eyeball. Look a disdain’s been replaced by one that’s all skeptical, like he don’t believe a word a what he’s hearin’. 

Yeah, I don’t trust this situation a bit, either.

“Shall we get on with things, then?” Fancypants asks. His gaze’s locked straight on me. 

“We’ll meet you there,” Deeke replies.

Big brother turns to me when his blue-blooded friend’s given me one last of them long looks and is gone. 

“You’re going to keep your mouth shut.” His voice is low and flat, lack of emotion more disturbin’ than if he were yellin’ his head off. “You answer only if he asks you a question directly. Nothing smart, either. “

I arch an eyebrow, take a cigarette from the pack in my pocket and tuck in, gesture for a light. “Or?”

“I’ll find an appropriate enough means of payback.” 

He flicks his lighter open and extends it.

Few puffs and m’suckin in my first sweet lungful of smoke. Makes me slightly less irritable. 

“Fair enough.”

Xxx

Beyond the jaw-shatterin’ pump of the electric, ethereal loop of music, and the slink of the low lightin’, we’re in the VIP room with a buncha other fellas, all of ‘em armed. Got our own bar, poker game goin’ on at the table. Exotic dancers, or whatever them stripper girls like to pretend they are in the classy skin joints, doin’ a professional job of keepin’ laps warm. One of ‘em don’t take ‘er hands off me, young, supple body pressed up gainst mine on the couch, hand on my thigh just too far down to be excitin’. Huge pair of tits, and man I’d wanna get a piece of that if I weren’t too busy tryin’ to keep my head up and my mind focused. Takes alla my willpower to keep my own hands to myself, even, and I gotta occupy ‘em with a glass of whiskey, sippin’ it slow to make it last.

Haven’t figure out exactly what’s goin’ down yet, as not mucha’s been said. Mr. Fancypants is too busy with a pair of ladies of his own, and Deeke left the room and hasn’t come back yet. His boys sit tight, and I gave up tyin’ to talk with ‘em when they ignored me the first several times. The other guys seem to be runnin’ with the noble, and they’re the far more laid back of the pair, but ain’t like they’re revealin’ much, either. Far as I can tell, everyone just seems to be waitin’ for…hell if I know, really. 

It comes in a grunt of surprise, a splatter of dark blood that’s almost invisible in the lowlit room. It’s one of the guys at the poker table, Deeke’s man with his eyes gone huge and white, and his body hasn’t even hit the floor when the VIP doors burst open and the rain of bullets commences. I know the signs of a firefight before it even begins. Got shot at too gorram often on every damn crew I was on. 

So when the party crashers get their killin’ spree on, I knock my unfortunate groupie off my lap and duck my arse behind the nearest solid piece a furniture, wait for a stiff to drop their weapon. Ain’t long before I get my wish. Bullet in the back of the head of a poor sap gets me a six shooter. I flip the chamber open, make note of the four bullets left. The noise in the room is deafenin’, and there don’t seem to be no discrimination between Deeke and the noble’s losses. Third party’s gunnin’ for both of ‘em, knew they were here. But ain’t like I got time to sit reflectin’ on facts. 

Ya wanna win a gunfight, ya got to make every one of ya shots count. No shootin’ blind or from the hip unless ya know the end is nigh. I throw my cover for a second, take another second to aim. 

Miss. 

I don’t linger to see the bullet that shoulda caught the fella between the eyes take off an ear, but I can hear ‘im screamin’ above the noise. He’ll be out of commission awhile.   
Pull back the hammer, aim again.

Nearly lose my grip on the weapon as I get noticed and a shot catches me in the arm. I bellow wordlessly, drop down back to cover. My shootin’ arm’s a dead weight, throbbin’ as fresh blood turns the sleeve of my suitcoat into a dark, oily stain. I switch the weapon to my other hand. Much less lethal, but it’ll do if I need it. It’s gettin’ quieter, and I hear footsteps approaching me. I don’t hesitate to draw the gun right in the bastard’s face as he steps into view, pull the trigger before he can even take aim. 

Blood and little chunks of the guy splatter on me. It’s real gorram messy and I scrub at myself with my sleeve, trying not to let the mangled, raw, and shiny flesh where the fucker’s jaw used to be worm into my head and disturb the sleepin’ things there. He’s got his hand cradled under the hole that shoulda been his chin, blood pooling into his cupped palm so fast it’s spillin’ over like a fresh struck oil rig. And he’s lookin’ at me with wide and glistenin’ eyes, his whole body tremblin’. The butt of my gun catches him hard against the head and he goes down. As if he were in any shape to put up a further fight, anyway.

Two bullets left, but its gone deadly silent. Eerily so. Someone’s cryin’. Sounds like one of the strippers. Someone else is yellin’, and that sounds like Deeke. I pick myself up and he’s standin’ there, whirls around with the barrel of his gun pointed in a line at my chest. He eases it to his side when he sees that it’s me. Several other men are with him. Thugs, survivors of the wreckage that are visibly shaken up, but alive. A survey of the room lets me know the noble bloke and his two nubile playthings are dead as folks can get. Judgin’ from the mass of bullet and phaser holes that gone and turned them into tapped barrels, they were the targets. Or at least the noble was. 

It’s my girl pal that’s the one that got out alive. I go over and help ‘er up, drape ‘er with a suitcoat someone left over the back of a chair, steady ‘er and check ‘er eyes like I seen doctors do. Don’t know exactly what m’lookin’ for, but she doesn’t seem to be in shock or any of that shit. Simply frazzled. 

Deeke motions for me to leave the room, and he’s got this look on his face while he’s starin’ at me, like I done him proud or some shit. Great, just what I gorram needed. I contemplate shootin’ ‘em down then and there, but those thugs with him look like trigger happy sycophants, and it ain’t worth my own life. 

I lead the stripper out and to a couch. There are more bodies waitin’ for me in the main part of the club, and the whole place’s been cleared of its clientele. Any stragglers are injured or workers, or those who were workin’ for my brother and Fancypants. Seems they got the place secured for now, probably waitin’ on their contacts from the local law branch. They let me out of the buildin’ without a second glance, where I light up a cigarette and lean against the wall, tryin’ to block out the agony and stiffness in my arm and the fact m’still covered in blood. 

I could take off into the night, hijack a shuttle or somethin’ before anyone realized I was missin’. It would be easy, so much that I can’t figure why I don’t do it. I look down at the gun, then up at the night sky, take a deep breath and close my eyes. The buildin’s close enough to the ocean that I can smell the sea air, and it’s what draws me away. 

But not towards the water. I know this planet like I know my way round a ship, and it’s to the empty and quiet residential streets that I aim for. Rows of apartments, condos, lit by a backdrop of advertisements and soft light glowin’ softly above eyelevel. An old tattoo shop done up in classical storefront style and deteriorating on a dead end street is where I end up. Light bleeds from its plate glass onto the concrete and plastic pedestrian walk, but nobody’s around, and it seems the shop is empty as well. The handle gives when I try it, though, the panel column built into the middle of the floor comin’ to life by some sensor or other, displayin’ projections of flash art and other modifications. 

“We’re by appointment only,” I hear a disembodied voice carry from somewhere in the back. “And I ain’t got no appointments booked for now, so bugger off.”

Same old, here. I smirk and drag deeply on my cigarette, coughing softly as I key the code I remember into the gate mechanism at the counter and slip behind it. My footsteps are silent as I head to the back, to an open storage closet, and lean against the doorjamb. The man bent over the racks has his back turned to me, absorbed in whatever he was lookin’ for so that he wouldn’t even know I was there unless he turned around. I roll my eyes.

“Ya should lock ya door, then. More likely to keep the ruffians out that way.”

That gets his attention. He whirls around, knocking over a box of what looks like synthetic paddin’ for stuffin’ furniture with. Dunno if it’s the sight of me or the gore that makes him look as if I sucker punched him. 

“Heya, Rabbit,” I deadpan, blowing smoke at the ceiling. “How’s life been treatin’ ya?”


End file.
